Gat Heat by Richard S. Prather Page A

asked Bingo.
    â€œWhat’s it to you?”
    â€œJust making conversation.”
    â€œWell, don’t. We’ll be there soon enough.”
    â€œHe put piranhas in that lake yet?”
    â€œWhat’s perahnus?”
    â€œLittle fish. You go swimming with piranhas, and they eat you up. Eat you alive.”
    â€œYou’re sure full of it, Scott. Jimmy didn’t do nothing to the lake. It’s like it always was. What’s it to you? You planning to swim in and see him?” He laughed.
    â€œI’m not planning to go at all.”
    He laughed at that, too. “You’re going,” he said.
    One police car had passed us so far, traveling in the opposite direction on Sunset. The driver had taken a long look at my car—the sky-blue Cad convertible is pretty well known in the L.A.-Hollywood area. The radio car didn’t turn around or come after us, but it was a start.
    We drove into the Strip, past the swank nightclubs and restaurants, the small shops, hole-in-the-wall cafés and strip joints, the black Lincoln behind us all the way. But there seemed to be more police cars passing us now, in both directions. And a plainclothes car was a few yards ahead in the left lane. I knew it was a plainclothes car because I’d recognized two of the men—the four men—inside it.
    The outcome was only a matter of time. What I didn’t know was whether my getting shot in the stomach would be part of the outcome. My stomach—that’s where Bingo held the .45 pointed with a sort of what-the-hell air. I suppose from his point of view, what the hell, it was my stomach.
    We were still on Sunset, but from the talk of piranhas and the lake and such I figured Jimmy Violet was living at the same place where he and his crumby pals had been hanging out two years ago. That was in a big dump on several acres well up into the hills between Hollywood and North Hollywood, less than a mile off Laurel Canyon Boulevard. So I figured we’d soon be turning north, probably on Laurel Canyon. I was right. Bingo directed me, and I signaled well in advance just in case anybody was interested.
    Well, there was lots of interest. It happened about a minute after we started up Laurel Canyon. The plainclothes car was still in front of my Cad, and it slowed to a stop. At the same time a black and white cruiser appeared a block ahead, coming this way. The black Lincoln was still right behind us, but there also seemed to be an unusual amount of traffic on this stretch of road, especially back there behind us.
    â€œHey, whatthehell,” Bingo said as I came to a stop.
    â€œYou want me to crash into that heap?” I asked him.
    â€œI don’t want you should stop.”
    â€œO.K., wait’ll I put the wings on, and we’ll fly over—”
    â€œDon’t do nothin’, that’s a cop … Oh-oh.”
    You wouldn’t believe how fast it happened. At least, Bingo didn’t believe it. He just about had time for one more “Whatthehell,” and then there were cops all over the place.
    All four officers in the plainclothes car had poured out and were on their way back toward us, but the black and white cruiser had already braked to a stop on my left and, at the same time, a man yanked open the Cad’s right-hand door.
    Bingo jerked his head around, but before his chops had moved an inch I’d grabbed the .45 with my right hand and then swung my left in an increasingly speedy arc, which ended with a most satisfactory chuncck on the side of his jaw. Satisfactory. but not as lethal as I’d have liked, since I didn’t really have opportunity to set myself and plant my feet, but it addled him. He didn’t go clear out, but he slumped down in the corner and said, “Buh,” or something like that. Then he shook his head slowly and said, “Whuh.”
    â€œThe black Linc behind us,” I told the guy who’d yanked open the door.
    He shook